


grow evermore (lighter and lighter)

by Byacolate



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Established Relationship, Game End Spoilers, M/M, Nipple Piercings, Piercings, Spells & Enchantments, overprotective boyfriendery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 16:20:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3074246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Byacolate/pseuds/Byacolate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"If you tossed me into the river, I‘d sink like a stone. A very shiny and well-dressed stone, mind you, but a stone nonetheless.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	grow evermore (lighter and lighter)

**Author's Note:**

> For - and expanded upon - a prompt in the kink meme: [So, Mage!Inquisitor wants to keep their lover safe, but there are only so many amulets and rings one can wear before it becomes cumbersome. And they'll have to take the jewelry off sometime, and then they'll be completely without protection. So the Inquisitor gets an idea...
> 
> They enchant some special jewelry and convince their lover to let them pierce them. Their lover is initially apprehensive about about sharp objects near such sensitive areas, but eventually agrees. The Inquisitor pierces them and they both love it, not only for the protection, but for how it looks and feels.]

“Hold a moment.”

 

Adaar‘s hands go still. They fall to his lap slowly, like Dorian may startle if he makes any sudden movement. Dorian shifts between the wide spread of Adaar‘s legs, seeking a more comfortable position for his ass and decidedly not moving farther away. Probably. Cowardice manifests itself in many forms - in stagnancy as well as retreat.

 

“This just seems like the sort of idea I‘d agree to under Sera’s terrible influence. Or after my third tankard of tavern swill.”

 

“You‘ve said that before,” Adaar points out unhelpfully. The needle between his fingers twitches, and Dorian‘s body with it. “We don‘t have to do this if you‘re uncomfortable.”

 

“I wasn‘t aware _comfort_ played a great part in this ordeal.” 

 

Adaar sets the needle and the handcrafted curl of obsidian aside before he leans in, resting his forehead against Dorian‘s. 

 

“Oh, now you‘re making me feel silly.”

 

“Your comfort isn‘t silly.” Adaar butts his head gently. “This is entirely selfish of me.”

 

“Yes, well.” Dorian knocks his nose against Adaar's. “I suppose there are only so many enchanted rings and amulets you can give a man before you must branch out. As it is, if you tossed me into the river, I‘d sink like a stone. A very shiny and well-dressed stone, mind you, but a stone nonetheless.”

 

A soft smile greets him when he pulls away to thoughtfully fondle the lobe of his left ear. It is soft and fleshy and Dorian has never once thought to go sticking bits and bobs through it - or any part of himself, in fact. There’s just something so off-putting about agreeing to be run through with anything sharp and pointy, no matter how small.

 

But Adaar had gotten it into his head, the idea of _just one more_ enchanted adornment, _one more_ ward, _one more_ stab in the dark at Dorian‘s survival should his own skill and cunning fail him. When it was mentioned casually in the deep of night before a roaring fire, half asleep with his toes curled in the Inquisitor‘s lap, it hadn’t seemed such a terrible idea. Adaar likes to fret - it‘s practically in his job description - and Dorian has learned to be indulgent.

 

An unpleasant thrill of unease spikes through Dorian’s belly at a wealth of memories of body slaves dripping with gold and jewels, chains hanging from great stretched holes in their ears, their noses, their tongues, ornamental in their very nature. For all his bluster regarding the criticism of slavery in Tevinter, Dorian finds himself immensely relieved to know that this isn‘t the Inquisitor‘s intention.

 

“Did you enchant this yourself?” he asks, lifting the obsidian bauble, curved like a ram‘s horn. It begins as a tiny pinprick, smaller than the needle lying unforgotten atop the coverlet, and thickens gradually as it loops toward the center until it is the girth of his smallest finger. Adaar dips his head.

 

“I crafted it,” he says, “but Dagna enchanted it. She assured me of the protection rune‘s effectiveness.”

 

“In no less than three-hundred words, I‘m sure.”

 

It lies heavy in his palm, and he wonders how long it will take to get used to the weight of it in his ear.

 

“Let me have it,” Adaar says, plucking the trinket from Dorian‘s hand. “This isn‘t a decision everyone makes lightly.”

 

“Not so lightly as you,” Dorian can‘t help but agree. He doesn‘t need to run his palms over Adaar‘s chest to feel the bars that lie beneath the grey jacket to illustrate his point, but he does it anyway.

 

“I should have been more concerned with your comfort. I know I can get a little...”

 

“Overprotective?” Dorian supplies. “Punctilious? Cossetting to the point of smothering?”

 

Adaar grimaces. “Yes.”

 

“Oh, untuck the tail from between your legs, amatus. You know how I like to tease.” The light from the stained glass window warms Adaar‘s face in a soft reddish gold, and Dorian steals the obsidian bauble back. “Now, when have you ever known me to make an idle promise? I told you I would sit here while you poke me full of holes, and so I shall.”

 

“Just one hole,” Adaar amends hopefully, and Dorian snorts.

 

“Yes, do try not to make a habit of this.”

 

“I wouldn‘t dream of it,” Adaar murmurs.

 

A tiny flame licks from his palm to the tip of his thumb, steady under the point of the needle. For some unfathomable reason, Dorian feels less squeamish about the column of fire a hair's breadth from his face than the tiny silverite needle burning hot within.  
  


* * *

 

 

Their inevitable demise by ancient, overly-ambitious Tevinter magister is nigh, but Adaar seems entirely at ease like this - his head against Dorian‘s chest, thumbing slow, idle circles around a brown areola. He sweeps soft, half-mouthed kisses against Dorian’s sternum and rubs his thumb back and forth over a pert nipple until Dorian is fidgeting where he lies. 

 

“Is this going somewhere, or do you just like to make me squirm?”

 

Adaar lifts his head just long enough to press a row of slow kisses to Dorian’s collar bone and one to his jaw before he settles back down like a limpet draped over Dorian’s chest. He spans his wide hand over Dorian’s ribs and sighs gustily over the neglected nipple near his mouth. “I’ve been thinking…”

 

“Marvelous,” Dorian hums, cupping a hand at the nape of Adaar’s neck. “I was wondering when you would start.”

 

He can feel every flutter of Adaar’s eyelashes over his heart. “Maybe now isn’t the best time, but… I have a proposition to make.”

 

“Of course I’ll marry you.” Dorian grins up at the ceiling. “Naturally, that would mean running off into the sunset far away from Thedas, and very, _very_ quickly before Cassandra catches wind. Such a pity to leave all this death and destruction and the end of all things behind us, but when needs must.”

 

Adaar’s quiet laughter jostles him, but only just. The subsequent pinch to his nipple does a better job of it.

 

“I was thinking something a little less… dramatic.”

 

When he reaches under the bed and returns with two thin bars of dragon-bone and anticipation shining in his eyes, Dorian connects the dots.

 

“Rather optimistic, aren’t you?”

 

Adaar just dips his head. 

 

“And what are these, amatus? Superior Nipple Bars of Guarding?”

 

“Something like that,” Adaar murmurs. He obediently hands them over when Dorian reaches out for a better look. “Dagna insisted the rune and bone alike will increase the strength of your barriers. She said that having two would make the effect twice as powerful.” He’s doing his best not to smile, which just makes it all the more obvious that he wants to. “Also, that two are more _aesthetically pleasing_ than one.”  

 

“Dagna knows a little too much about what we get up to, I think.”

 

“Probably.”

 

Dorian rolls a white bar between his fingers, considering. Adaar would revoke the suggestion without question if Dorian refused. He’d tuck them neatly back into their little cloth sack and stow them away, all but forgotten.

 

“Maker. We’d be _that_ sort of couple,” Dorian realizes, aghast. “We’d be the same as the gaudy fools who wear matching outfits and… and _accessorize_ together. What's next? Grotesque pet names? Public displays of affection? Shall we adopt a cat?” 

 

“The bizarre mating rituals of people in love,” Adaar agrees, his sanguine smile broadening. 

 

  
He knows that Dorian knows he’s won. What Dorian wouldn’t give to have a little resistance in the face of all that _hopefulness_.

  
“Oh, go on then,” Dorian sighs, lying back and stretching languidly like they don’t have a would-be god hot on their heels, thirsty for blood. Like his world might not end should Corypheus succeed. Like at any given moment, everything that means anything to him might not disappear right before his eyes before he can do a damn thing about it. Perhaps this is what Adaar feels when he comes to Dorian with optimism in his eyes and enchanted frippery in hand. “I suppose two more won‘t hurt. And I mean that in the broadest sense of the word.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The keep has settled for the age, and Dorian has remained too long. The great, wide chasm that opens in his chest when he remembers he is leaving Adaar’s side assures him that it must be now or he will lose all his nerve. The Inquisitor, contrary to everything he has proved himself to be, isn’t very helpful.

His thumb traces the crooked bridge of Dorian‘s nose reverently, and the look in his eyes is just this side of too much.

A hot, fresh sting pulses when tiny pinprick of a pure gold barbel catches on Adaar’s thumb. It rests lengthwise across the bridge between Dorian’s eyes. He wonders how long it will take to grow accustomed to the flash of gold forever in his line of vision. 

In retaliation, Dorian reaches up and pokes at the identical bauble prodding through the skin on the bridge of Adaar’s nose. 

“I think I did alright,” he muses, tilting Adaar’s head to admire his handiwork gleaming warmly in the firelight. “And now I‘ll be reminded of all your outlandish smothering rituals every time I look in a mirror. You must be so pleased.” A low noise comes from within Adaar‘s throat, like Dorian‘s hit a nerve. “You don‘t think I‘ll forget all of your little idiosyncrasies and foibles while I’m away, do you?” he teases, cupping Adaar‘s face between his hands. “Dull as you are and as much as I do hate you, I really don‘t think that‘s possible.”

Adaar turns his head to press a kiss to Dorian‘s left palm, can‘t seem to bring himself to look Dorian in the eye. He’s been so quiet all week - quieter than is usual. Dorian remembers how he once was at the beginning of all this, attentive and soft-spoken, somehow all the bigger for how he allowed his presence to speak where he did not. It speaks for him now, dark and contemplative and unbearably withdrawn.

“Sweet, dear heart,” Dorian sighs. It makes Adaar shiver when he strokes along the pointed tip of his ear. Dorian cannot change his mind now. He has a purpose, and he will see it through. It‘s what the Inquisitor would do. “This isn’t how I want to go, you know. I want you celebrating my departure in the morning. There should be trumpets and confetti and bright bursts of light as I walk away like the heroic martyr of love that I am. And I won’t look back, not once, because if I do I would… it would ruin the effect, you see.”

Adaar presses his thumb to the dark freckle under Dorian’s right eye. “I want you to be safe,” he says, quiet against the delicate skin of Dorian’s wrist. 

“Just as safe as you,” Dorian returns. He eyes the barbel that parallels Dorian’s, feels the pull of Adaar’s magic on his own like a tether. Now or never. 

_Never_ is proving to be an overwhelming temptation.

“I’ll write so often you won’t even notice my absence,” Dorian promises. “It won’t be forever. Just long enough for me to turn the whole of the Imperium on its ear, demand a reform of every stodgy belief we've ever held dear, and beat a hasty retreat before I suffer any consequences for it. No, not long at all. If I’ve learned anything from you, it shouldn’t take more than a week. Two at a stretch.” He pats Adaar’s chest. “We’ll be revolutionaries together, you and I.”

Adaar’s quiet gaze is overfull with pride and melancholy and Dorian isn’t strong enough to bear the weight of it with the candles unsnuffed.

 

* * *

  
In the morning, when Dorian rides past the broad arch of Skyhold’s gate, every beat of his pulse thrums warmly in the skin between his eyes, his chest. He lifts one hand to tug at the obsidian curled in the soft lobe of his ear until it burns. 

 

He wonders if the Inquisitor can feel it, too. 

**Author's Note:**

> Inquire about fic requests [here!](http://wardencommando.tumblr.com/ask)  
> Title from “Sawdust and Diamonds” by Joanna Newsom: _So: enough of this terror. We deserve to know light, and grow evermore lighter and lighter. You would have seen me through, but I could not undo that desire._
> 
> If you are so inclined, feel free to follow [my Tumblr](http://wardencommando.tumblr.com/).


End file.
